


A Practical Kind of Magic

by Lexalicious70



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, M/M, Spells & Enchantments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-04-19 06:29:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14231337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexalicious70/pseuds/Lexalicious70
Summary: When an errant spell goes wrong during a party at the Physical Kids cottage, Eliot is unexpectedly affected. Quentin uses a different kind of magic to soothe him in the aftermath.





	A Practical Kind of Magic

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this on Tumblr awhile ago and never got around to putting it up. I don't own The Magicians, this is just for fun. Comment and kudos are magic! Enjoy.

**A Practical Kind of Magic**

**By Lexalicious70**

 

“Has he been out at all?”

 

Margo scoffed at Quentin’s question as she watched him climb the staircase to the second floor of the Physical Kids cottage.

 

“Would _you_ come out after that?”

 

“I guess not.” Quentin admitted as he unslung his brown leather messenger bag from one shoulder and set it against the opposite wall. “Will he at least talk to you through the door?”

 

“ _He can hear you, and he doesn’t like being discussed this way_!” Eliot’s voice reached them from the other side of the two-tone door, and Margo planted her small hands on her hips.

 

“Well maybe if you came out here and talked to us? We might even be able to help.”

 

“ _No! I won’t let anyone see me like this!_ ”

 

“El, come on . . .” Quentin coaxed as he put a hand on the door. “It’s not like spells have never backfired before, and Dean Fogg said it’d grow back!”

 

The door unlocked and opened a crack to reveal one furious amber eye. “I said I’m not coming out, and I fucking meant it! If you want to be useful, Quentin, bring me two bottles of Moscato from the bar!” The door slammed shut and locked again, and Margo rolled her eyes.

 

“Jesus.”

 

“We’re his friends,” Quentin said as he turned back to Margo. “Aren’t we? Why won’t he let us help?”

 

“You were half right, Q. Spells have backfired at Brakebills before. They’ve just never backfired on Eliot Waugh.”

 

Quentin nodded as he remembered the party at the cottage the night before. It had turned especially wild after one a.m., and Eliot and some other kids from his class were playing some game that was part drunken Harry Potter roleplay, part pyrotechnics, and part real magic. Spells had flown back and forth, along with some epic verbal zings from Eliot himself, but then one of them, thrown by a second year who was so inebriated he had shouted “ _FOR FROGSWELTS_!” before casting, had struck Eliot square in the head and threw him against the far cottage wall. He was mostly on his feet, giggling and bruised, by the time Quentin and Margo reached him, and it was Quentin who first realized that most of his friend’s thick, dark hair was scattered around the floor around them, leaving listless, piebald patches in a random pattern on Eliot’s head.

 

Eliot had fled to his room a few moments later, leaving a trail of hair behind among the laughter of the rest of the party guests.

 

“He’s humiliated, Q.” Margo said, bringing him back to the present. “And when you’re Eliot Waugh . . .” She sighed. “Listen, I’ll bring him his wine. Maybe you can find a spell at the library that might be able to help.”

 

“All right.” He nodded as he picked up his messenger bag and headed to his own room to change. He kicked the door shut behind him and tossed his bag on the bed before changing out of his shirt and tie into a comfortable grey sweater that Eliot loved to hate (“ _I’ve seen blobs of jizz with more shape, Q”_ ) and jeans. He paused to try and settle his uneasy thoughts as his hands went to his own tawny hair, where his fingers tightened and relaxed repeatedly in a stim cycle. Once he recognized the action he pulled his hands away and flapped them in irritation. A memory shot through his head at the same time, sent up without warning, like a misfired signal flare, of him and his mother sitting on the couch together. He was no more than six, plum-colored yarn wrapped around both hands, unwinding busily as he watched his mother knit a scarf.

 

_“Busy hands, peaceful mind, Quentin. It’s always been my creed.”_

_How many times did I hold the yarn for her like that? And then she taught me how when I started having anxiety. Because she said busy hands quieted loud thoughts. I guess she knew from experience._ Quentin glanced over at his dresser as another thought grew in his head and he turned to lock his door, knowing Margo would think he’d gone to the library. As Quentin gathered materials and settled into his reading chair, sounds of the cottage began to fall away, as they always did once he’d committed himself to a task.

 

**_Five hours later_ **

“Eliot? It’s me . . . please, open the door, I have to talk to you.” Quentin tapped at Eliot’s door with one finger. “It’s important. El . . . please.”

 

A pause. Then:

 

“ _Are you alone_?”

 

“Yeah . . . Margo went on a booze run.”

 

Silence stretched out for nearly forty seconds. Quentin was about to tap again when the door lock popped and Eliot opened it just enough for Quentin to push open. Quentin slipped through the small space and shut the door behind him. Eliot’s room was dark and quiet and his long, lean form was little more than a shadow in the low light.

 

“What do you want, Quentin?”

 

“To help you.”

 

“Nothing can. Henry already said there’s no spell to regrow my hair. I can use illusion magic to make it seem like it’s there, but since everyone already knows what happened, I don’t see much use in that.”

 

“No, I guess not. But, uhm, I thought maybe this might help.” Quentin pulled a small bundle from his pocket and offered it. Eliot cocked his head, currently draped in a paisley scarf, and stepped forward to accept it. Panic seized Quentin suddenly and he began to draw away. “It’s not very good. It could have been a lot better, maybe I should, uhm—”

 

“Let me see.” Eliot tugged it away and went to turn on a small lamp near the bed as he sat down. He blinked against the brightness and then in surprise as he saw what he held—a black beanie, cleverly knitted with soft, quality thread. On the front was the Brakebills logo, the key-and-bee, defined sharply in yellow and perfectly centered. Eliot turned it over in his hands a few times, curiosity growing into awe.

 

“Q, where did you get this? I’ve never seen anything like it on campus.”

 

“I . . .I, uhm. Made it.”

 

Eliot rose from the bed to face his friend.

 

“Made it? You mean, just now?”

 

“Yeah. I—I sort of know how to knit. I know it’s weird and probably lame or creepy or . . .you know . . . not something a guy should know how to do. But when I was little and first started getting symptoms of anxiety, my mom would have me sit on the couch with her and hold the yarn in my hands while she knitted. Then she taught me the techniques and when I’d feel jittery or restless or felt like I was about to stim, I’d pick up my needles instead. Even after she left. I don’t know why I’m tell you all this, El, I’m sorry—”

 

“Quit apologizing.” Eliot pulled the scarf from his head. A few errant curls clung stubbornly to the top of his head, and Quentin could see the dark shadow of new stubble that was already growing. Eliot slipped the beanie on and went to his mirror. Quentin caught the flash of a grin in his friend’s reflection.

 

“This matches my Welter’s uniform. And my yellow drainpipe slacks . . . and my school blazer.” Eliot turned from the mirror. “Quentin? I love it.” He crossed the room and kissed his friend warmly on the mouth, making Quentin’s eyes widen, his thoughts creating a massive multi-synaptic pileup in his head. Even as he tried to process the taste of Eliot’s lips, they withdrew, leaving Quentin stunned yet curious about the sensation.

 

“Ehherrmhh . . .?” He managed, and Eliot chuckled as he pulled him into a hug.

 

“I’m thanking you, you weird, wonderful, wibbly thing!”

 

“Oh. Uhm—you’re welcome. I just thought . . . well, I know we have magic, but I was worried about you and I remembered what my mom used to say when I got anxious.” He tipped his eyes up to meet Eliot’s. “And I thought it might help us both.”

 

Eliot kept an arm around Quentin as he went back to the mirror, draping a long arm over the younger magician’s narrow shoulders.

 

“There’s all different kinds of magic, Q.” He adjusted the beanie into a rakish tilt that suited him perfectly as examined their reflections in the mirror. Quentin leaned into him, and Eliot noticed how he seemed to fit into his edges—even the ones he couldn’t see. Quentin smiled up at him.

 

“Does it feel okay?”

 

Eliot turned and hugged Quentin to him, resting his chin on top of his head.

 

“It’s a perfect fit, Q.”

 

 

_Fin_


End file.
